


Perfect Game

by gwyneth rhys (gwyneth)



Series: Batter Up (Baseball) [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baseball, Biting, Brooklyn Dodgers, Dirty Talk, History, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Is Still Terrible at Double Entendres, Television
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4654926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyneth/pseuds/gwyneth%20rhys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It gave him such a saucy look that Bucky’s heart sped up. They’d be here for at least three more hours, and that was three hours plus the time it took to get home where he couldn’t touch Steve, kiss that eyebrow and his sly, plush mouth, run his hands along Steve’s peaches and cream skin. Work him into a lather and make him shudder and moan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Game

**Author's Note:**

> When I was researching Brooklyn Dodgers games for Doubleheader, I came across two facts for the 1939 season that I knew I had to use: that the August 26, 1939 doubleheader was the first televised major league ballgame, and that the Reds' pitcher for the first game was Bucky Walters. It was just too perfect, so I set myself a goal of writing and posting a story by that date. Hopefully someone will enjoy!

“Television. For ballgames. Ain’t that somethin’,” Steve said, squinting down toward the cameras along the visitors’ dugout and up behind home plate. 

They’d come to Ebbets Field early enough to catch a glimpse of Durocher being interviewed in front of the cameras by Red Barber before the first game started, but they hadn’t been able to get close enough to really see how everything worked. Steve had tried to strike up a conversation with one of the crew, but the fella’d just snapped, “Get out of here, kid, quit buggin’ me,” which made Steve get that look on his face--ready to tear into the guy for calling him _kid_ when he was probably not much older than Steve or Bucky. So Bucky did what he always did when Steve made that face, grabbing him by the collar and hauling him off to their section before the dukes could go up and he started swinging.

“When we saw it at the Fair, I never thought they’d use it at a ballgame,” Bucky said, watching the cameras too. “Sports move too fast, seems like.” 

“Well, they gotta make those World’s Fair patches on their jerseys count for something, I guess.” He leaned a tiny bit closer to Bucky.

They were pretty far up here in these seats--both of them were a little tight on money this month and if they wanted to watch the doubleheader, they had to be satisfied with the nosebleed section. Ebbets was crammed today, what with pennant fever in the air and playing the league-leaders, but the crowd wasn’t too terrible immediately around them--Bucky could let his legs fall open, his left pressed along Steve’s right, since most people were focused on the Dodgers and the Reds. 

Steve was apparently so fascinated by the cameras and the men working around them that he barely even noticed Bucky touching him, and hadn’t finished his root beer or writing down the stats for the first inning and a half. Well, they had a lot more innings to go, and truth to tell, Bucky was pretty fascinated himself. 

“I wonder how many people can see this. They said it can send signals up to fifty miles away.”

“Gonna be a blur, mostly, if that stuff we saw was any indication.” As they were talking, Phelps knocked one out, so Bucky reluctantly tugged his leg away from Steve’s. When the noise died down, Bucky said, “I bet most people are watching it at the Fair, not in their homes.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, and turned his face to Bucky. “That’s what I want to do,” he added eagerly.

“Watch a ballgame at the Fair?” Bucky asked. Of course, they could certainly go again, but he was bewildered by Steve’s enthusiasm.

“No, jerk, television. Work with television.” Steve’s left eyebrow was arched, hidden up under the hair that fell across his forehead, and it gave him such a saucy look that Bucky’s heart sped up. They’d be here for at least three more hours, and that was three hours plus the time it took to get home where he couldn’t touch Steve, kiss that eyebrow and his sly, plush mouth, run his hands along Steve’s peaches and cream skin. Work him into a lather and make him shudder and moan as he came in Bucky’s mouth. 

Licking his lips, Bucky focused on Steve’s words. “Doing what?” He couldn’t see Steve lifting any of that equipment, even just those cables would probably drop him like a swatted fly, but he certainly had a great voice--Bucky had often thought he could be on the radio with that voice. Only...Bucky wanted that voice solely for himself; when he could get Steve to talk to him during sex, it drove him absolutely wild. Sometimes he thought he could shoot the works simply from the sound of Steve’s voice in his ear alone, all hoarse and throaty and desperate. Yet he loved it when Steve was commanding, too, when instead of asking Bucky for things, he told him what to do in that bossy voice, _made him_.

He supposed it made sense: Bucky’d spent his whole life being the one everyone looked to, the fella in charge, yet he was also the one person who knew how strong and what a force of nature Steve truly was. Steve had spent his whole life having almost no control over his body, being betrayed by it, so being in control, getting aroused by that command over someone else, Bucky understood that. Wanted it, even, for both of them. 

“I don’t know. Still too early to know what it’s going to be like. But I bet they’ll need artists, for backgrounds maybe, or advertising.” Steve had picked up a lot of work with the WPA the past couple years, and even did some for the World’s Fair itself. Television might be a logical extension of his skills. 

“Bet I could learn to work one of them cameras,” Bucky said. It could be fun, maybe the both of them could go into it together. Steve was gifted at seeing things other people didn’t notice, at figuring stuff out. The keen eyes of an artist. If he thought television might be a place to get steady work and not just a fad, Bucky was sure it would turn out to be so.

“Course you could,” Steve agreed, “you’re great with any kind of machinery. Great with your hands.” He glanced sideways and cautiously slid his knee along Bucky’s. _God._

“It’s settled, then, we’ll become television men.” Bucky scanned the people around them--everyone was busy jeering at Walker striking out--and then traced his fingertips along the inside of Steve’s thigh, hiding it slightly underneath Steve’s notebook. 

They put their focus back on the game and watched silently for a while. Occasionally, Steve would look up at him from under his long eyelashes, making Bucky’s stomach go all fluttery. 

They were still working their way along, exploring what fellas could do with each other. Bucky’d been thinking for a while that he wanted to round home plate--to actually fuck Steve, or maybe have Steve fuck him, he wasn’t entirely sure he cared which. Deep inside, he was kind of scared he might hurt Steve if he was the one to do it. For a pint-sized guy, Steve had a lot of moxie, but his body was his body and they couldn’t ignore his limitations. A little smile hovered on Steve’s lips, like he knew exactly what Bucky was thinking about. 

Maybe it was the summer sun or the game, but Steve seemed downright naughty today. Or maybe it was just that each day he mourned a little bit less, settling with the ways he missed his ma, figuring out where grief fit in his life. “You don’t really get over it, I think, you just stop talking about it,” he’d said one day, and while that made sense to Bucky he’d still held Steve tight and said, “You don’t stop talking about it to me.” Steve was still mulishly difficult to encourage to open up--that control again, always--but the past few months it’d finally sunk into his thick skull that he was safe.

Today, though, there was a glimmer in his eyes Bucky hadn’t seen for months, not since the first time they’d kissed. If only there was some dark corner at Ebbets he could cart Steve off to and kiss his lips swollen and red. Home was much too far away; even the building where he worked--where he’d first sucked Steve off--was too fucking far away.

“Your namesake’s on fire today,” Steve said, jotting down the numbers for the top half of the inning. They were up by two, but Bucky could tell that lead was gonna disappear fast. 

“He ain’t my namesake.” Steve loved to tease him about that, insisted they had to go to any game Bucky Walters pitched because they had to show solidarity to his namesake. He just couldn’t leave it alone. Bucky longed for the day when Walters retired from baseball, but of course there had been other Buckys in sports before and there probably would always be more, and Steve would never stop getting mileage out of that. “Our nemesis, maybe, since we can’t seem to beat him, but not my namesake. Christ, how many times I gotta say that? One of these days I’m gonna pummel you into a pile of goo. People’ll be walking around you, looking down and exclaiming, ‘Oh, look at that puddle of goo! Didn’t that used to be little Stevie Rogers? He musta finally pushed that long-suffering saint of a friend of his, Bucky Barnes, too far. He got his just desserts.’ Or maybe it’s just you got a thing for _that_ Bucky.”

Though Bucky couldn’t see his face because he was doubled over, Steve’s shoulders shook with laughter, his arms across his belly. Bucky couldn’t decide which he desired more--to reach over and punch him or wind his fingers through Steve’s hair and tug him toward his mouth with his grip. Maybe both. Wanting was the easy part. Eventually Steve raised his head, face red, eyes wet. “Nah. Only my Bucky.” Bucky couldn’t help it, he smiled down at Steve. Because he _was_ , he was Steve’s Bucky. And Steve was his.

That familiar warmth spread through his lower belly; he willed himself to focus on the game or watch the television cameras or anything else that took his mind off what it would be like to actually feel himself inside Steve, hot and sweaty, the heavy musk of sex in the air around them. 

A few weeks before, Steve had started playing with Bucky’s baseball team. It seemed as if his moods had lightened, as if he was generally happier. Friskier, too, after their games. He might not get much field time, being their substitute, but he was doing well at second, and it was maybe selfish on Bucky’s part to have pushed him onto the team, because he just wanted Steve with him all the time. They’d come home, sweaty and filthy and weary, but never too tired for each other. The uniform was a bit big on Steve, but to Bucky he looked--well, _adorable_ was the word that always came to mind, but Bucky knew better than to ever call Steve that to his face. They would get inside the apartment and peel each other like bananas as they petted and fondled and necked, bruises from bites and sucking springing up every place they could keep them concealed.

Bucky had thought Steve would clock him one the first time he’d bitten him, but Steve went absolutely berserk for it, especially on his precious little behind, and he seemed to like giving just as good as he got. The precarious thrill of feeling Steve’s teeth along his johnson, just enough to exert pressure but not enough to hurt, made Bucky lose it every single time. This was, Bucky was given to thinking sometimes, a pretty great life, all things considered--they were so compatible, him and Steve, crazy about each other and the best of friends, and that got you through a lot. They had something so special and rare few people would ever know it, like...a pitcher throwing a perfect game, maybe.

It wouldn’t last forever, he knew that. Sooner or later they would have to live the lives the rest of the world expected them to live, and Bucky had no doubt that Steve would eventually find a gal who saw him with clear eyes, who would step out with him for more than just a few weeks. Someone Steve could be as free with as he was with Bucky. 

After a few innings of woolgathering, he was snapped out of his reverie by the jeers around him as those fucking bums lost the first game; they just couldn’t win against Walters that summer and the boos echoed through the stadium. He and Steve grumbled as they filed out with the crowd for the twenty-minute break.

Steve was studying him while he had a smoke, though Bucky couldn’t tell if he was mentally drawing him in his head--he did that a lot, Bucky was used to it--or he was thinking of what they could do once they got home. Often, Bucky thought he could read Steve like a book, but other times Steve seemed as inscrutable and opaque as a dream. Partly that was because Steve was smarter than him; he was a river that ran deeper than anyone else could guess. His heart was a lot bigger, too, than other people understood and he had ideas that Bucky couldn’t really jump on board with--Steve wanted to fix the world, whereas Bucky basically thought the world could just go fuck itself, especially after the way it had treated Steve all these years.

But that was how Steve would always be, and Bucky had to accept that, especially with that world spinning out of control around them. Everyone was waiting for news that war had finally broken out in Europe--it seemed inevitable, and Steve was obsessed with following the reports. If war did happen, Steve would be desperate to find a way to serve whether the United States was in it or not, Bucky knew that in his soul. Rumors about a draft were flying; Steve would never pass muster even though he was ninety-six pounds of sheer bravado. Steve was--well, he should have been made out of steel, because what else could support the weight of all that courage and boldness? It would put any soldier or king or saint to shame.

As if he could tell Bucky’s thoughts were getting maudlin, Steve glanced up at him and winked. Before he started in on his second hot dog, Steve pushed it partway out of the bun, then brought it to his mouth. He put his pillowy, pink lips around it and waggled his eyebrows. Bucky felt his eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up his forehead, jaw dropping open. Steve had once complained that Bucky was too unflappable, that nothing seemed to shock him--and Steve was determined to find ways to knock him on his ass. Which was funny, because Steve’d blush furiously and hide his face in his arms when they were trying something new in bed or he had to tell Bucky what he wanted--but then he’d turn right around and act like this and make Bucky’s heart practically seize in his chest. 

“ _Steve!_ ” Bucky wheezed, as Steve stuffed half the dog in his mouth and bit, like nothing was out of the ordinary. Little bastard. Bucky looked forward to making him pay for that later.

Steve cocked his head and shrugged a shoulder at him. “Time to go back to our seats.” Any trace of mischief had vanished, leaving just the usual bright blue-eyed sparkle Steve reserved only for him. Bucky could feel a bit of mustard or ketchup at the corner of his mouth, so he pointedly, slowly licked it away, watching Steve’s eyes widen in comic surprise, or maybe lust. Two could play at that game.

The stadium was more crowded for the nightcap, of course. Bucky kept his leg well inside his own space, though every once in a while, Steve would slip a finger under his thigh, covered by his notebook, acting as if he’d dropped his pencil down between them. He’d always thought Steve’s recordkeeping would come in handy. 

This game was definitely leaning in the Dodgers’ favor. They were cheering a really nice triple-play when Steve said, so low he almost didn’t hear it, “That hitter. He likes heavy balls.” Bucky’s eyes went huge and round for a second in shock, and he sucked in a breath. _You little shit. You got me again._ So they were gonna do that again, he thought, and tried not to laugh, because laughing would make Steve think he had one up on Bucky. 

“Steve,” he said emphatically.

Steve smirked. “What? You can see from that hit what kind of _balls_ he likes.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Bucky hissed. He knew what would happen once they got started on this. It was just too damn hard to keep his mitts off of Steve when he got like that, all I-double-dare-you.

“Not low or tight.”

It didn’t seem as if anyone was looking at them or listening, but this was simply too far over the line. “He’s not the kind of hitter who chokes up on the stick,” Steve said, “away from the knob.” Bucky narrowed his eyes and glared. 

Another cheer went up for a play Bucky missed entirely. Goddammit. “No, he’s a long man,” Bucky said, circling his fingers and moving his hand up and down as if he was stroking the bat. 

“Always in scoring position,” Steve said, working his eyebrows. 

Bucky licked his lips. His dick twitched in his trousers. Jesus, how were they supposed to sit here like this, or worse, get home on the trolley, when they were both in shirtsleeves and trousers. At least Steve had his notebook with him; all Bucky had was his flat cap. “For a safety squeeze.” Steve hit the word _squeeze_ all low and dirty.

This was such a terrible idea. Bucky stared at Steve, torn between willing him to stop and hoping to make him feel even more uncomfortable than Bucky did. “He takes those deep,” he finally eked out, as quietly as he could, but his cheeks were warmed by redness and there was a heavy hammering in his chest. 

Steve nodded. “Not afraid of a little chin music.” The image of Steve sucking him off leapt into his head, pearly ropes of Bucky’s come on his chin, lips plump and red. The way Steve licked it from around his mouth with an insolent smile.

Bucky groaned. “Do you--do you want to stay for the rest of the game? You’re looking a little peaked.” Steve’s breath was shallow and his color high, but his eyes gleamed with lust. 

“I don’t know that I’m the only one who’s peaked.” He cleared his throat. “They’re gonna win this one. We’d miss seeing them win.”

Sighing, Bucky nodded. They should just stay right here while he tried to tamp down the wood inside his undershorts. He was trying to think of the worst images he could, just to get himself under control. Car accidents. His great-aunt’s wrinkled pucker. “Yeah, sure.”

Under his breath, Steve said, “But I thought you’d never ask.” They both carefully stood up and Steve added, “Anyway, it’s a done deal, the pitcher just keeps _getting those balls up there_.”

“You are the absolute worst fella I know,” Bucky ground out between his teeth.

Bucky didn’t put his cap on straightaway, instead held it in front of him as they threaded their way out of their seats and to the trolley stop. Steve sat across from him on the ride home, a tiny tug at the corner of his mouth that positively screamed double-dog dare, and Bucky decided right then and there they were going all the way this time, no more waiting, no more being afraid of hurting Steve. 

When they finally got home, Steve kissed him as soon as they shut the door. Bucky was nearly panting as he unlaced his shoes, but Steve just whipped his off and threw them to the side, practically pouncing on Bucky. “I need to wash up,” Steve said, licking along Bucky’s lips. “God, your mouth. It’s gorgeous.” He pulled back and darted away.

One of the reasons they’d been so desperate to hold on to this place was that Steve’s mother had managed to find one of the few apartments in this neighborhood with its own full bathroom. She’d been determined that Steve, with all his ailments, wouldn’t have to stand in a drafty hallway, though it had taken up most of her income--and it was definitely stretching Bucky and Steve’s thin, too. Now that they were fooling around with each other--well, it was worth every penny.

As he waited for Steve, Bucky tried to freshen up himself, even though the place was a humid, soggy oven and he’d be covered in sweat in a few seconds anyhow. There was some wine in the cupboard from Mr. Zito downstairs, so Bucky uncorked it and poured them both a glass. When Steve came out he was smiling and humming to himself, taking the wine and downing it in a couple gulps, licking the red droplets from his lips. 

None of this waiting had done a thing to tamp down Bucky’s arousal, or apparently Steve’s, as they went at each other’s clothes. They were finally naked. Steve pushed him backwards, punctuating each step with a kiss, onto the broke-down wingback chair near the bed. Oh, it was gonna be one of those nights, where Steve was feeling his oats, wanting the upper hand. Bucky fuckin’ loved those nights. He flipped the radio on, twiddling the dial until he found some music, as Bucky watched him, rubbing his hand up and down his cock, smearing the drops on the head around and down.

When Steve had started playing with the team, they’d worked on building a little more muscle tone in him, but even weeks of bench or leg presses and pushups hadn’t made a dent in Steve. Bucky was glad, honestly, because he liked it this way, Steve’s wiry frame with its deceptive strength, the little pink nipples on his bony chest, the bird bones of his wrists giving way to much larger hands--they were all so dear to him and he just wanted to mouth at every inch of him. But he waited and watched, pleasuring himself at the sight of his fella.

As Steve came toward him, Bucky let his head fall back, staring up at him in wonder. Steve had grabbed the little tub of lanolin, and tossed it at Bucky. “Just like you need a little something for a greaseball,” Steve said. But he blushed furiously when he said it, betraying the confidence he tried to project, and it made Bucky go all softhearted over him, even if his prick was hard as a hickory bat. He grabbed at Steve, digging his fingers into his soft, round bottom, as Steve shuddered and sighed. Just as Bucky was leaning forward to put his mouth to Steve’s cock, Steve pushed against his shoulders. “Stay there,” he said firmly, and Bucky leaned his head back, dragging his hands down to Steve’s skinny hips. “Don’t move until I tell you.”

Oh, he was terrible at this, Steve would have to tie him down if he didn’t want Bucky to move, and wasn’t that a thought. Steve hooked one leg over the arm of the chair, hoisting himself on Bucky’s shoulders and bringing his left leg up and over, until his ass was just in front of Bucky’s dick. _Holy Mary Mother of God_. Bucky shoved his hands under Steve’s ass, so Steve swatted him, saying in a low voice, “Did I say you could move?” Bucky shivered and sighed.

Rocking his hips up and down, Steve waited and watched for a little bit, drawing it out. Then he touched Bucky’s shoulder. “Now you can put your hands on me.” 

So he did, staring up at him, watching as Steve slid his own hands along Bucky’s throat, ran his thumbs along Bucky’s lips. 

“Is this--are you all right with this?” Bucky asked, but Steve’s only answer was to lean down and kiss him, tongue moving confidently inside his mouth. His little hips rolled against Bucky’s, and Bucky gripped him with more force.

When he was done kissing him, Steve pressed his forehead to Bucky’s. “Don’t know how much clearer I can make it to you how all right with it I am.”

“I don’t wanna--”

“Buck. I ain’t gonna break. I ain’t made of glass.” There wasn’t a lot of patience or fondness in those words; he rolled his eyes and scowled. With a laugh, Bucky grabbed his lower lip between his teeth and tugged, making Steve inhale sharply, raggedly. 

It made him laugh, this way Steve had of getting so cranky even when they were in the middle of cracking each other’s marbles, and Steve just huffily shoved the lanolin cream at him. “I’m gonna break you in half, then,” Bucky said while licking a stripe up Steve’s throat. “Rip you to pieces.” Maybe he’d show Steve a little control himself.

“ _Please_ ,” Steve said, and ground his butt down so that Bucky’s dick was snugged up between his ass cheeks. Holy hell. “Put that stuff on yourself, and in me. It needs to be--you need to be, um, slippery.” Bucky didn’t even want to ask how long he’d been thinking about this, how he’d figured out all the logistics of how two fellas did this sort of thing. That was Steve’s way. 

As always, Bucky did as he was told. He’d touched Steve there before, just tracing his fingertips over the soft flesh, and Steve had made the loudest noise Bucky’d ever heard come out of him--still pretty quiet by Bucky’s rather vocal standards--but this was. Well. This was something else altogether, slipping a finger inside him, feeling the clench of Steve’s muscles around it, the way he rolled his hips up and down, almost fucking himself on his finger. “More,” he said in a dark, desperate voice, but Bucky didn’t know whether that meant another finger or more motion, so he figured what the hell, why not give him both.

Steve nearly shot off his lap, little _oh, oh, oh_ s coming from his mouth, and Bucky strained up to his lips for a kiss. He bit the point of Steve’s chin, following along his jaw line with nibbles until he reached Steve’s ear, where he sucked in the lobe and worried it between his teeth before plunging his tongue inside. If this kept up, Bucky wasn’t certain he was going to last long enough to actually get his prick inside Steve. Pulling his fingers out, he said against Steve’s wet ear, “I gotta--” and Steve nodded, knowing what he meant without him having to say it.

He quickly spread more of the stuff around his cock, stopping every few seconds to breathe, forcing himself through sheer willpower not to shoot the works, and then with aching slowness began pushing inside Steve. “Do it,” Steve said, though not in his usual bossy timbre, more of a pleading urgency instead. “Keep going.” Bucky thought he detected the slightest wince the further he pushed inside Steve, but he knew better than to stop. 

“What is it--how does it feel?” he asked, as careful in his wording as he could be considering he thought he might be blasting into outer space, this felt so incredible. It was tight, so tight around him, hot and slick and Steve was biting into the hollow of his neck and shoulder, his breath tight little gasps that feathered across Bucky’s skin. 

“It’s...” Steve seemed at a loss for words for maybe the first time in his life. But he moved, tentatively and then with a little more determination, rocking back and forth. Bucky threw his head back against the chair, biting his lip so he wouldn’t make too much noise. “It’s good,” he said eventually, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself, and then repeating the words with more force as his hips snapped up and back.

Bucky pushed into him all the way, and oh god, it was _heaven_. “Are your legs okay?” he asked, trying to lift Steve up so all his weight wasn’t on his thighs and knees. They both moved more frantically now, their breaths keeping pace with their thrusts, and Steve felt so light in his arms. Steve twisted his fingers into Bucky’s hair, pulling it, kissing his mouth, and that was it, pulling his hair was the surefire way to get Bucky to lose it. He couldn’t last whether Steve wanted him to or not, shooting off inside Steve, burying the obscenities pouring out of his mouth in Steve’s neck as he thrust and stilled, thrust and stilled. He was only vaguely aware of putting his hand around Steve’s dick, fingers weak and clumsy as little shocks continued to ripple through him.

Steve rode him for another minute, head thrown back, the long line of his neck exposed as Bucky mouthed it, murmuring his name over and over like he was praying the Rosary. Then Steve’s body seized up before he spouted all over Bucky’s chest, as silent as always, staring into Bucky’s eyes. The way his eyelashes fluttered as he shot off made Bucky almost swoon. Christ almighty, he was so cockeyed over Steve it was ridiculous. They were both demented.

His dick grew soft, and Bucky pulled out of him, wet and sloppy, but he grabbed Steve by the hips and lifted him as he stood, carrying Steve with his legs wrapped around Bucky’s waist the couple steps to the bed. If Steve thought he could begrudge Bucky the chance to tend to him, he could go climb a tree. Bucky turned him facedown on the bed, massaged his thighs and knees a little bit, rubbed his lower back, and then moistened a washcloth to clean them both up. Fortunately Steve fussed only a little bit, soft grunts of annoyance that tempered into sighs of pleasure, though he kept his face hidden and tried to cover the way he blushed. The coolness felt nice on Bucky’s skin, so he got another cloth and placed it against the back of Steve’s neck, enjoying his contented sigh. 

Lying next to him, Bucky said, “We oughtta check in about the game.”

“Mmm,” Steve responded, dreamy and quiet. “Are you sorry you missed the rest of it?”

“Not a chance.” He kissed along Steve’s spine, resting his cheek on the small of his back. “They coulda been taking the Series and it wouldn’t compare to this.”

“You’re such a sweet-talker.”

“Only for you.”

“And half the dames in Brooklyn.”

“Fair enough.” They were quiet for a while, and then Bucky said, “Though wouldn’t it be somethin’ if those mooks ever took a Series? I hope someday we get to see that.”

“They will. I got faith.” Steve turned over and pulled Bucky’s face up to meet his mouth, peppering his lips with delicate kisses. “So, you haven’t said. Did you like it?”

“You gotta ask?” Bucky traced one of the finger-sized bruises that had flared along Steve’s hip. “Thought I was gonna snap you in two like a twig.”

“You warned me that’s what you were gonna do. I was prepared. And I keep telling you--”

“I know, I know, you ain’t gonna break. Still.” Bucky sighed. “Yeah. I liked it, as much as I like all the things we get up to. Maybe more. You should--you should feel it too. Next time.”

Steve arched his eyebrow. “So that’s how it is?” He smiled indulgently and kissed Bucky’s mouth again. “We might have to tussle for who’s on the mound and who’s behind the plate, though. I think...I think I liked that better than almost anything else.”

“Oh god, are you gonna start with the baseball again?” Bucky groaned. 

“Mostly I just wanna sleep now. That was--very athletic.”

“You held up pretty well. All these games you been playing, the weights you been lifting, you’re a regular pro now. You’re a regular muscle man.”

Steve snorted and flicked Bucky’s nose. 

He let Steve snuggle into him, even though it was so fucking hot inside he could scarcely breathe, closing his eyes as darkness crept around the edges of the drapes. The radio played softly in the corner, and Bucky would have to get up to turn it off soon, but right now he didn’t want to move. If only there was some way he could make time stand still, freeze this forever. Just the two of them, discovering all these new ways to love each other. Where only good things--the Dodgers taking the pennant, say, or getting some good jobs in television--might intrude upon them, rather than the bad things Bucky saw all around them, like the conflict in Europe, the never-ending Depression. The lives others might insist he and Steve had to live, apart from one another.

This was everything he needed right here in this lousy tenement, right now; it was all just right. Sort of like pitching a perfect game.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd written a lot of this before some of the Cap3 spoilers came out, and I thought about getting rid of the "Steve's Bucky" stuff, but in the end I kept putting it back in. I guess canon is just always going to change on us, I don't know.
> 
> Likes, reblogs [on Tumblr](http://teatotally.tumblr.com/post/127574685585/new-fic-perfect-game), comments are all gratefully received!


End file.
